Deb Kelly is a Fool for April

There are few things I love as much as turning the calendar from March to April. In my house, March has been called everything from Smarch to Fartch. It is the worst invention ever, and one day when I am Queen of Practically Everything I will eliminate Smarch and replace it with two shorter, more manageable months: Teeveeber and Napth.

March is the month where I surrender to winter. It actually starts in late February. Though I powered through most of February by swinging on a vine from New Years to Valentine’s Day, the vine stops swinging on the 15th, and I find myself dangling precariously over a great iced-over and windy lake, covered in slush, being beaten about the head and shoulders by Daylight Savings Time. In March, my favorite shows are all on hiatus. My favorite books are all checked out by someone else at the library. The movie theaters are full of duds with no hope of Oscar contention. The backyard is so high with snow I cannot even get to the composter. Which is fine because the last time I saw a fresh fruit or vegetable was in 2012.

And it is time to do my taxes.

March. It is the worst. 31 days that feel like 31 years. Cabin Fever. Seasonal Affective Disorder. St. Patrick’s Day. Smarch.

And then one day, every year, you wake up, gaunt, fat, exhausted, miserable, and cold, and realize. It is April. Oh thank God it is April.

The first thing I do every April is lose five pounds without trying. Next, I find myself needing less sleep, and so have more time to stay up late reading all the excellent books that seem to fall from the sky in April. Some of my favorite hardcover authors release their paperbacks in April, and going to the bookstore feels like winning the lottery. There is a film festival. At the theater, there is a trailer for a new summer comic book movie and I get excited.The backyard starts to thaw and the sun starts to shine and I suddenly realize, there is this other place, besides my house and my car, and it is called Outside, and it is huge.

The birds in my backyard sing. My BLB starts to see bunnies out the window, and he wants to go out there, and I don’t have to worry about doing a finger count before we come back inside. I go a week without shoveling. Then two weeks. I wash my down parka and tuck it away.

And then, one day, I am at the store, and there they are. Soft, rich, ripe and red. California strawberries. $2 a pound, organic. And boom. I know I lived through March for a reason.

April. If you made it to April, you know, it will all be okay. The rest of the snow will melt. Your car will start every morning, without extraordinary measures. Your neighbors will reappear. Your lake will thaw. Your heart along with it. To everyone, every single person, who passed an open window this March, may I present:

I totally need a Napth on the calendar. Seriously. Where do I go to sign that petition?

And yes, even here in California we eagerly await the return of the strawberries. I think we’ve eaten more strawberries in the last month than we did in the 11 that came before it. They are, indeed, a welcome sign of spring!